


Yardman's Honeymoon

by archea2



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:36:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/pseuds/archea2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade proposes to Sherlock. Everyone is (more or less) exultant. Everyone?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yardman's Honeymoon

**Author's Note:**

> My first kink meme entry! Written before/not compliant with S2.
> 
> (I'm slightly nostalgic for the time when we all loved to dabble with That Darn Swimming-Pool.)
> 
> Title and multiple POV borrowed from Dorothy L. Sayers's _Busman's Honeymoon_. I was probably optimistic as to the odds of a High Church gay marriage, but, eh, fiction's priviledge.

"Marie Turner, and hurry up whoever you are,  _Coronation Street_  is on in three minutes."

"Marie!  _I'm getting married ones_!"

"... Martha?"

"I felt I had to tell you first. Oh dear, I'm happier than a clam on a high. (Or is it a high tide? You never can tell with shellfish.) My Sherlock couldn't hope for a nicer, straighter man – well, in the old-fashioned sense – to have and hold him. My oh my, now I'm hiccupping. What do they put in lavender these days? Must have grabbed the wrong spray."

"Wait, wait a tick, lemme get this right. Jumping Beanstalk is jumping the broom? With that grey-haired cove who got Gustav out of the tree for me, last time he came round in that  _loud_  car of his?"

"Yes to both! They came in for tea just now, fresh from their Morgue. Sherlock pecked me on the cheek and said 'I'm getting married, Mrs Hudson. Biscuit, please', cool as a cucumber sandwich, but there's no fooling an old woman when it comes to sweet amour. So I said 'and none too soon, you big ninny!" and kissed the two of them, and Detective Inspector Lestrade said please to call him Greg, and then of course I had to ask which of them asked the other."

"Oh, Martha, proposals are so  _passé_. Colin says Tony took one look at their tax forms and said, 'Fuck, we're getting hooked'."

« Yes, but the... but Greg likes to play by the rules, you know. Told me he waited for Sherlock to deduce who the murderer was – retired contorsionist with a bank overdue – before he popped the question. Said Sherlock's adrenalin rate was so high by then he'd have said yes to a six-month retreat in a Nepali ashram."

"What did Doctor Watson say? I guess he'll have to relocate now, poor man."

"Nothing of the sort! None of us could hold on very long without dear John on the premises. No, I'm having 221A dried and spruced up for Gregory, though I dare say Sherlock will turn half of it into a lab extension before you can say newlyweds."

"So they're really having a wedding?"

"I should hope so! Sherlock spoke of going to a Registry because he doesn't want his brother to interfere but Gregory said, Hell no, if he had to fill yet another form he'd make it worth his while. And so they left - to celebrate their first prenuptial bicker, no doubt."

"Tchhh. Look at you lucky wench. Getting a new tenant  _and_  a resident copper a _nd_  a wedding. Be sure to take pics for me, eh?"

"Of course! And we must plan a Married Ones meet-up one of these days. I say, Marie, perhaps we'll be starting a trend?"

* * *

To : Mrs Zenobia Holmes, Devonshire

Sensitive Information Level : 10

Transfer security : 10

Mummie Dearest,

This ought to reach you in about seventy-five minutes. Please do not offer Captain Davies a cup of tea as he is on his way to Ankara, and explaining why the helicopter had to make an emergency stop at Rome was a tad tricky that last time. I would have called you but reasons political, diplomatical, ideological and  ~~buccal~~  bilateral make it currently difficult for me to use the phone.

Your memo re Sherlock I have duly perused. Point 1 is regretfully compromised – I've done my honest best, Mummie, I swear, but the odds are still against the Roman Curia changing their minds about same-sex unions by the 1rst of August. We'll have to make do with the Anglican rite, as Lestrade is C of E and Sherlock's personal creed probably entails being married by a microprocessor.

Upon learning of their new...agreement, I summoned the detective inspector for a little consulting of my own. Which began with him ordering shepherd's pie at the Diogenes, would you believe it, and telling me with a smirk that he and Sherlock planned to have the wedding luncheon at New Scotland Yard. Little negotiation leverage here, I fear, but at least I've booked them the Guards Chapel which is only a stone's throw away. I'm taking the curate through security drills first thing tomorrow.

(By which I really mean cordoning off all candle points, font water points, incense fumes, etc. since I doubt that even marital bliss would quash Sherlock's experimental fibre.)

Gregory Lestrade is no fool as he has proved time and again in dealing with Sherlock, and I have every faith in the depth and sincerity of his attachment. Still, he can be annoyingly tacit at times and, even in a private salon, pointlessly informative at others. ~~Engagement nipple rings, forsooth~~. It took three courses and a none-too-veiled threat of upping the Met's current bureaucracy levels for him to sign the little covenant I had prepared. He raised some inept objections as to the children's name that I pooh-poohed in no time. Of course they must be Holmeses – with Sherlock's intelligence and looks, and the good inspector's more... stolid qualities, they'll be a credit to you and me.

He also told me he'd requested a five day leave and was thinking of Umbria for their honeymoon. This ranked among pointless information since a) we had already traced Sergeant Donovan's call to their hotel, and b) they are in fact headed to Paris, where Lestrade's sister's concierge has booked them a room near the Elysée. You may remember the papers mentioning that little matter of the four left-handed gloves that were found stuck at the top of the Presidential gate with a cryptic message  ~~and the hands still in them~~. Even Chamberlain would have seen through the subterfuge.

I shouldn't be too concerned about Sherlock's "delicate constitution" when it comes to the bridal night, Mummie. Lestrade is a tactful man who has probably probed  ~~my brother~~  the issue with all due consideration. Also, surveillance has been upgraded accordinly.

No, I haven't been in direct contact with Sherlock. Communication is rather limited on his part  ~~discounting the gory smiley faces~~. Indirect contact suggests that he is being his irritating chipper self. Let us hope for the best and pray that he will not spoil all preparations by rendezvousing another psychotic little twerp on his stag night.

Your devoted son,

Mycroft

* * *

From : t.gregson@nsy.uk

To : s.donovan@nsy.uk, j.dimmock@nsy.uk, a.anderson@nsy.uk

Re : DI's D-Day coming up

You bloody bastards. You soggybrained sorry sods. There was NO proviso that the pool winner be the one to host the stag party! You made that up on the spot, you losers, because none of you could figure that five weeks would plenty enough for Lestrade to man up and kiss his bachelor days goodbye. Serves you right for being a bunch of tight-arsed celibates. Yeah, you too, Anderson.

That said, perhaps it's all for the best that I monitor the proceedings. And you, my hearties, are going to make sure that a good time is had by all, including the fiancé.

Anderson, you're a medical man and a teetotaller – need I say more? I don't mind the lads horsing around with the beer and spirits, but please bloody please,  _don't let them mix the booze_. The last stag party I hosted was my own and, Jesus fuck, I spent just as much time restoring their virginity to the floors.

Dim, for Pete's sake, keep an eye on the pups. Lestrade is no prude and they can revive the Full Monty for all I care or pin a "Sherly's Angel" poster to his back, but you know how the fun tends to spiral down. Lestrade is their superior and a decent enough sort, and I won't allow for him to be hassled in my digs – full stop.

Sally, you're buying the gift. Oh yeah, you've heard me. D&G handcuffs, Dutch courage, Julie Andrews's complete repertoire or Beckham's mug on pint glasses – your call. And don't give me your "all because I'm a woman" crap, lass, you've been his right arm for longer than I can recall, so if anyone knows about the man's tastes, it's you. And I'm too lazy to haul my ass to Harrod's in all that heat.

Aaaand that's all folks. See you in a week, and mind – everybody play good cop or they'll rue the night.

Gregson

* * *

You have 1 new message.

_All vows and no play make Sherlock a dull boy._

_All work and no pay make Greggy a dead toy._

* * *

_The TRULY personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson._

June 15.

Can't remember which of Carroll's characters believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast, but he could take a leaf out of my blog. There are days when I've heard up to  _ten_  improbable sayings before breakkie, and that's when Sherlock is full-on awake. Yesterday's gems included "Don't remove the magenta nail lacquer before I tell you to, it's an experiment", "If you were bitten by a mandrill, how would you react?" and "But of course,  _coprophagia_!" (which is when I tuned out).

Today's Sherlockiana were more subdued, but still in character. Greg had just extended one of his Bring-Your-Own-Brain invites and Sherlock was wrapping himself in and around his scarf when he stopped, angled his head to catch my eye, and said "If Lestrade asks me to marry him today, will you agree to remain my flatmate?"

...Yeah. Hard one, that. Once diagnosed, it could mean either "I'm not ready yet to commit myself and want to use you as an alibi" or "I am ready to commit, but aware that daily cohabitation with Detective Inspector Lestrade, who once told us he'd christened his hoover John Edgar, will probably result in double spousal homicide under a month".

Chances were all in favour of diagnosis 2, but it seemed a bit not good to answer before Greg asked, so I smiled and said "Let's wait and see".

June 16.

And he did, as it happened, ask.

Can't say I was that surprised. All right, "eyes have they, but they cannot see" is Sherlock's daily wail about his entourage, but here, you'd have to be blind-bat to miss the cues. Took me less than a week after the Pink case to wonder if Sherlock's fidgety vigil for Lestrade's texts might have something to do with the texter, or watch his face stretch an extra inch down when told by Dimmock that the DI was AWOL, or check his badge collection on the sly.

Lestrade keeping his mouth shut about the badges was clue supremo. Like that early case Sherlock is always raving about, where the dog didn't bark and made all the difference. 

And then – the pool. Ah, the pool. That moment when the little dots pricking our faces like a malevolent rash popped off, and Moriarty too, seeing it before we did – before Sherlock let his arm fall and said "That will be him". I thought – but there was a low exultant ring to that  _him_  that couldn't mean Mycroft, not when Greg Lestrade was already crossing the beige-tiled floor, his mouth a rigid line, holding the submachine gun with which he'd taken down the first sniper. I'd grown so used to him staying rooted aside in our previous crime scenes, while Sherlock flitted about, that the reversal felt strangely odd, and yet oddly right. He stopped right before us – from where I sat, I could see Sherlock's shoulders cave a bit as reaction set in – and then, my flatmate was giving a passable imitation of his five feet eight  _morphing_  into Greg's winter jacket, and Greg had his gun-free arm around him.

Was saying something, too, which I didn't catch because the stage was filled with extras and Mycroft holding out a hand, babbling something or other about the Litvan Embassy Secretary and could Sherlock possibly refrain from advertising a secret Defence project on e-bay next time, he'd be _so_ grateful. Typical Mycroft.

Next morning, come breakfast, Sherlock was turning a charred piece of toast in his hands, gazing at it absently. I remembered the old, old words that some of us recited not so long ago in fear and doubt, that those who walk through the fire will not get burned. But I didn't say anything, because it's not for me to state the improbable. It's not why I'm here, living with him.

Yeah, I'll be staying on for a bit. With him. Them. Hope to God Sarah won't mind, but she and Sherlock rather see eye to eye in that regard. Doctor, blogger, chai wallah, colleague, and now lightkeeper – she'll probably tell me to ask for a raise.

June 19.

Things progressing nicely on the wedding front. Was promoted Best Man by the powers in command and told the main offensive would take place at the grooms' HQ, to save time and bother. (Sherlock's words. I think he actually expects to be married on his next crime scene, kneeling next to the corpse and going all "yes, yes, with my body I thee worship... now  _this_  body here, etc." until the Met Chaplain implodes.)

Must think of suitable dress uniform – and must thank Greg for planning the big do in synch with the summer sales.

June 22.

Nothing much to report. Mrs H agreed to a shopping spree, Mycroft kidnapped Greg for a change, and the evening forecast is predicting a heatwave.

June 26.

What on earth does one give a high-functioning sociopath as a wedding gift? Greg is easy enough to shop for, but Sherlock would drive even the Great Herkules to seek counseling.

I did. Can't say it amounted to much so far.

Mike said "Identical ties" – but ties might ruffle Sherlock's doubts. Molly wiped a tear and said "A cat" – but Mrs Hudson adamant about having two felines on her premises. She then showed me _her_ gift, a book of self-compiled recipes, complete with a concordance of aphrodisiac herbes, cross-referenced according to season. I stand defeated.

Unless...but Sarah caught me glancing at some of the medical rig in her office and said "Absolutely not, unless you want to be sofa-cuddler extraordinaire for the next six weeks".

Eh, well. I can always knit them a tea cosy.

June 28.

Greg called at 6 to say most of the paperwork had been dealt with, though one clerk flatly refused to believe that Sherlock's name was Sherlock and insisted on spelling it Charlotte. Dropped at the flat later to celebrate and roared over the knitting predicament. I asked about the groom's gift to the groom and he said we'd know on Monday, which Sherlock promptly and happily deduced meant he'd spotted a nice serial murder somewhere out of his jurisdiction and was waiting for the resident DI's thumbs-up before he sent us over.

Never thought I'd be part and parcel of a wedding gift. Guess it's never too late to give one's self-esteem a boost.

July 2.

One good thing about being Best Man to a self-proclaimed sociopath is, you don't have to plan a stag do. Greg had his tonight and Sherlock huffed "My compliments to the Neandertals", then whipped up his laptop and started agonizing over multiple accounts of stag revels that all involved juvenile strippers coated in marmite or collective shagging to the sound of Gloria Gaynor. I locked both computers away and put on _Midsommer Murders_.

It was quarter past one when the stag staggered in, clutching a pack of Beckham-stamped pint glasses to his heart and muttering somberly about refreshing a mind or two on pot-bust procedures. To my surprise, Sherlock never said a word. He turned the telly off and fetched his violin.

They made an endearing picture, if truth be told - Greg plumped down on the couch, his silvering head in Sherlock's lap, and Sherlock playing the Fauré melodies he has been practising lately. Mrs Hudson came in with herbal tea at two and we toasted them in silence, then draped a blanket carefully over them, picked up the violin and tiptoed back to our respective rooms.

July 4

"Here you go, baby. Serial madman in Surrey, still unidentified, has launched upon a revival of ye old public execution rites. He's done Roman and Middle Ages, so now he's in full Renaissance swing according to Ashdown. Enjoy!"

And to Surrey we went, to admire a body impeccably hanged, drawn and quartered by 113 degrees Fahrenheit. Sherlock came back in delirious spirits, saying we should get a pig to "experiment". Ugh ! Must beg either Greg to tone down his romantic streak or God to send us a thunderstorm.

July 9

Bloody hell. Someone's spilled the beans to the press and they've cooked up the usual tripe. Came to the station this morning to find Greg's face gracing the news stand under a two-inch thick headline ("Policeman's Toy-Boy Gets His Due"). The anonymous author did not name Sherlock, but described the fiancé as a teenaged necrophiliac brought on the sly to crime scenes, where he and the DI indulged in unspeakable orgies monitored by an ex-Army Doctor recently dismissed from the ranks.

Got home early and was sorely tempted to dig up the Sig and pay a little visit to the editor-in-chief, but the mischief was done and Mycroft's people would ensure that it remained one of its kind. Sherlock was pacing to and fro, confiding to his slippers in hissy mutters, and when I said that Lestrade's CS would hardly demob him on the strength of such bilge, snapped "Obviously not, don't be an idiot. That's not the point, John. That's not the issue". His phone rang before I could ask what the issue was, and ten seconds later he was saying  _Ne dis pas de bêtises_  [Don't talk nonsense], so I knew I wouldn't get an answer.

They have this little habit of breaking into French under my nose that I found so damn cringing. Before I pegged it for what it was - a way for each to reach out to the other, childhood memories uniting to batter down all the layers of difference that age and class and temper have stacked up between them.

Now I find it heartwarming.

(Plus, it does much to improve my French. Though  _J'ai envie de toi, mon gosse, ici, maintenant, comme un fou_  [want you, laddie, here and now, crave you like mad] won't get me far, professionally or otherwise.)

July 10

Looks like I'm answered. Moriarty's text came at the end of my shift, causing me to swear loudly and lavishly before five dehydrated elderlies. (One of whom later told Sarah I wasn't a patch on the Authorized King James Version.)

This time, Sherlock called his brother.

I found them facing each other like two very tetchy book-ends and knew better than to interfere. While Mycroft urged Sherlock to "differ your nuptials for the good of everyone involved" and Sherlock told Mycroft in no uncertain terms to "stop treating this like your own third-rate morganatic affairs", I dug up my headphones, switched on telly, and selected a rival show.

Pulling off a plug now and then to check on their progress.

The Romulan Commander was close to making out with Mr Spock when they collapsed back into their chairs, both toneless, and reached a gentlemen's agreement.

Sherlock gets to get married. He also gets access to whatever information Mycroft's services have compiled on Jim Moriarty, and his fiancé gets a top-notch Praetorian guard until the Holmes Inc. get Jim.

Mycroft gets to give Sherlock away.

It was nice to see them shake hands on this, even though Sherlock did try to tower over Mycroft, all five feet eight in his stockinged feet. But then boys will be boys, as Mrs Hudson said the day Sherlock tried to home-boil linseed oil at the expense of her walls, ceiling, windows and remaining life-span.

 _EDIT Lovely sentiment, John. For the sake of posterity, I'm six feet two and I wear alpaca socks_.

July 13

Helped Greg move his things to 221A, then stood him a beer at the George's. He had Guinnes, I a bitter. The Praetorians had orange squash.

"They're good lads," he said, glancing at them approvingly. "See the guy on the right, with the scuttling hairline and navy-blue trainers? Loaned me a submachine gun once in a pool. Wish I'd got him to renew the lease when that tosser wrote his trash on Sherlock – in for a penny, in for a pounding. Eh?"

"Yup," I said. "All the same, we don't want another headline about the Met promoting shotgun weddings. Eh?"

He chuckled, and I couldn't help asking if they'd traced the party who'd badmouthed him to the press. Couldn't say it in so many words, but I did wonder if his team was implicated. Greg is a man of faith in more fields than one, and it would have been a sad blow if one of his flock had sold him. As it turned out, thankfully, the culprit was another DI who had bungled one of his cases and needed some happier peer to take it out on.

Ah, the joys of sibling rivalry.

"So do me a favour and cut it out in your speech," Greg concluded. "I'm showing Mummie Holmes my better profile and as far as she's concerned, the Yard is the latest, trendiest daycare center for gifted second-borns. Everyone is under strict orders not to let her near my office, or else. Be good and play along with the kiddies."

A speech? No one had mentioned a speech before, let alone a speech addressed the Holmes faction. Christ, but I miss Afghanistan some days.

"That's right," he grinned, reading me loud and clear. Bastard. "Mum is the word."

July 17.

Sarah snapped her fingers twice at my face at lunch break and said "That's it. I've had it, John. I'm taking you to my mother's house in Brighton for a long week-end, and if you so much as breathe "wedding" before Monday, _I'_ ll fusillier you, buddy."

July 22.

Thank God for women. And seasides.

July 23.

Got a text from Sherlock asking me to retrieve the rings at the jeweller's, as he was busy hanging and quartering his pig. Couldn't resist a peep at the engravings. The smaller ring, Sherlock's, reads "To love, honour and consult" with the marriage date. Greg's ring reads "183592-44" which makes sod-all sense, so must be some extra-top-superly-secret code of emergency thoughtfully provided by Mycroft.

July 27.

Rain ! At long last, RAIN! Could it be we're actually going to survive the month?

July 30.

Not all of us, sadly. The Guards' Chapel phoned this morning to say that Father Puffles, who'd prepared Greg and Sherlock for marriage and was to conduct the ceremony, had called in sick. "Nervous exhaustion," Greg said, giving me a lift to the practice. "Poor old sod probably od'd on theological nitpicking with Sherlock. Knew he was doomed when he couldn't find a logical reason for the Almighty to create Sher in the first place."

Meanwhile, the Chapel has sent a stand-in called Father McKane who is being cleared with Mycroft. A "more resilient specimen" in Mycroft's words, which could mean anything from a callused cynic to a six foot two rugby amateur. He'll survive.

July 31.

"Stay with him," Greg said. "As things stand, you'll be seeing enough of me in the next twenty years. And I'm fetching my sister at Gatwick."

So I made tea and an omelet, and ate the omelet, and we watched telly a bit. Sherlock texted DI Ashdown to arrest the school director's elder sister. I logged onto my blog to find thirty-two comments congratulating Sherlock on his impending nuptials, plus one suggesting that he sell his favours to a younger man, "a self-made funeral entrepreneur with an open mind". Didn't mention any, but let him read on, huddled in his couch corner, until he shut his book and crossed his arms behind his head. He spoke under his breath, but I knew the words before his mouth released them.

"John. Am I right in wanting this?"

I went to sit on the sofa arm and lay a hand on his elbow. "Not half," I said. "Look, Lestrade has been in the force for twenty years or so. He knew danger before he met you. He knew what danger lay in wanting you. And he knows what he's doing now."

Sherlock turned his head to look at me. "Not a very good question, then."

I smiled. "No," I nodded. "But as a good an answer as you'd get from the man himself. Come, off to bed with you, we're making an early start. It will take three hours and an IV drip if required, but I'm not getting you to church without breakfast."

It's turned very late, but I still can't find in me to sleep. I've taken out the Sig and I'm oiling it because – yeah. These two are my friends. Better prepared than repaired, the soldier's motto.

* * *

From :a.anderson@hotmail.uk

To : jenny.anderson@orange.com

Re: re: marrying off your boss

Really, Jen, it's not even as if there's anything to tell. Trust Holmes to remain true to self and make a starck muck-up of procedure even with his own marriage. The  _messiest_  affair I've ever seen and I congratulate myself on being well out of it, so don't expect me to clap and simper. You women are all the same when it comes to weddings.

Well, I got to the Chapel at eleven "sharp" as specified on the card and soon understood why when I had to show my ID twice and fairly strip down to my pants before they let me in. Charming. Typical Holmes, raising a big fuss with his deluxe brother to show what VIPs they are, only to cut down on their expenses by renting the Yard gratis for the buffet.

Lestrade has no family to speak of apart from a married sister, so the place was crowded with Holmeses of all ages and varieties, dressed to the nines and behaving as if they had a monopoly on Tourette's disorder. Some kept firing bizarre questions at one another, such as 'How's the monography on slug fractals going, Hepzibah?" or « "Still eating Brussels sprouts at breakfast, Everard, I  _see"_. Others sat slumped on their benches, looking up at the ceiling with intensely glazed eyes. Meanwhile, Lestrade's Holmes was making a show of staying closeted in an enormous black limo with tinted windows, though he did open the door once or twice, only to be hooked and pulled back by something that looked like an umbrella handle. How fin-de-race is that?

I was pointed to one of the back benches by a posh young thing who kept fiddling with a BlackBerry while she placed us – did I mention Tourette contamination? The placing was perfectly insane, too. I still don't see why Sergeant Donovan, by all accounts my colleague and equally ranked partner, was shown to the second pew while I had to rub elbows with the constables and a glut of ga-ga Holmeses. Still, we all ended up more or less seated and Lestrade crossed the nave with John Watson, the best man, to the vestry where the priest was waiting. Next thing I knew, Sally Donovan was practically trampling over Mme Lepierre to join them.

The organ piped out some gospelly ersatz to pass the time, and we all waited for the groom to reappear. Instead, there was a tremendous BOOM, as if someone was trying out a battering ram on the vestry door. Then another. Then another, and someone – Gregson, I think – said "Horse before carriage, eh?" rather loudly. The organ broke into Wagner's  _Lohengrin_  march to cover the ruckus, Holmes materialized at the door pat on cue, and dived into the aisle - only to freeze after a few steps at the sight of the empty altar.

Then the vestry door opened and Lestrade sprinted to his post with the priest and Watson and Donovan in trail, all looking dishevelled and very red in the face. The Holmes hemisphere began to hum like a swoop of Dior-tailored bees and the other groom jogged down the aisle with a suspicious face, pivoting right and left to scan the benches in his stride.

The priest had somehow managed to launch the service while Lohengrin and Holmes were still racing each other, the brother in tow, and he now stuttered his way through the vows over a steady buzz of  _sotto voce_  deducing. How Lestrade, with his age and position, could let himself be talked into such a harlequinade is beyond me. Marrying a psychopath is bad enough without having the day ruined by the psycho's kin and kith. Well, it's not as if all of us hadn't given him fair warning.

It was soon over, thank god! And I wanted to ask Donovan what the whole rumpus had been about, but she'd been swallowed up into the usual melee. I had a bear of a headache, so I just waved to Lestrade from afar and headed home. Masticating runny petits fours sponsored by the British taxpayer is not exactly my idea of Sunday fun.

Speaking of which, I'd appreciate to know when you're planning to come home. The fridge is two-third empty and Mrs Potts forgot the milk  _again_  this morning.

Yours,

Anderson

* * *

11 : 16 – What's going on here? SH

11 : 18 – _Sherlock, please. Explanations can wait until you're a married man._

11 : 20 –Greg still panting, yet didn't have to run down the aisle. John's tie capsized to the left. Question repeated. SH

11 : 23 - **Better answer Father M first, luvver. Asked you twice if you will or won't.**

11 : 27 - SHERLOCK, WILL YOU PLEASE CONCENTRATE ON YOUR VOWS. YOU'RE MAKING THE WHOLE FAMILY UPSET.

11 : 29 – Piss off, Mycroft. Was it Jim? SH

11 : 31 - THAT'S MUMMIE TO YOU, YOUNG MAN. ENCHANTÉE, MONSIEUR LESTRADE. COULD I TROUBLE YOU TO HOLD MY SON'S HAND FOR THE NEXT TWENTY MINUTES?

11 : 33 - **Pleasure, ma'am. Sher, it's ring-a-ding time.**

11 : 35 - _All phones off now, gents, and that's a sodding order_.

11 : 45 - Heeeeere's Jimmy !

11 : 49 - Oh come on, darling, don't sulk. Really. A greyhead with a checkered shirt and a yokel accent? You should be getting down on your knees to thank me, you bad boyo.

12 : 00 - ...Hullooo ? Anybody home?

* * *

Hhm-harrum. Me again. Hullo, tape. Guess what? It's five a.m. and this girl's sloshed to the gills with Veuve Cliquot and – and – and – and – alone, yeah, like always. Except – not quite like.

There's the light, for one thing. First time I've left the blinds up, and the office window is, like,  _going_  under the hot pale flow. Hot champagne flow.

So. So it's not gonna be like the times before. I'm not gonna erase the tape after and store it back with the others, against the next witness recording. Because I. Because I want me a souvenir, for when all the tomorrows are back and the blinds drop down again.

"Take your time, start where you want to start." That's what we tell them, poor folks. But where does it start, a tale like this? I still don't – get it. Yeah. Told him as much the day I crashed in here after he'd asked the Freak, asked him before the lot of us, and he came in after a beat. Stood on this very spot with his arms knotted, looking at me and never saying a word. So I let him have it, straight from the horse's mouth. "Why?" I said. "He'll bitch you high and dry, sir, pardon my French. He'll have his fill of whatever it is he wants from you and leave you cold out. He may be God's own IQ test made flesh and cashmere, but he'll still bust _you_ in the end, see if he doesn't, because they forgot every human fibre when they fleshed him out and,  _Christ_ , sir, why do this to yourself?"

Meaning, of course, to us. Well. Me. When you work this long with a man like Lestrade, the frontiers end up a bit frazzled. One day you're Mum, pulling him out of the terrible press confs where he  _always_  ends up with a foot up his mouth, then it's one of the Andy days and you're Baby Sis, being fed slop coffee and good words, and the day after, you might be falling a little for the man. Day in day out, but everyday the trust, the – warmth of pulling with him.

So it all came down to "Why?" And he smiled, Lestrade. Just looked at me and fucking smiled, and – it's like the light in here. You'd never think so much sun could fit in this coop, but it does, and I felt a hundred just looking at him. So I grabbed my bag and ran a line home, never turning my head when he called out "Sergeant!".

We didn't speak of it, after. Played the role, by the rule. Bought him the stupid pint glasses, cheered with the others, got an invite. But inside of me, something snagged. Something just wouldn't give. Freak showed up again with the odd civilians that everyone knew were no civilians and kissed him flat under my nose, kissed Greg's tired smiling eyes. His flicked to me across the office partition, but still it jammed, and so I let the blinds down.

Day in day out, and today I was walking into a church with Andy – shaggy joke, that. _Hah_. But here's where I must be careful to remember. Because that was when everything, and I mean  _everything_ , went bonkers.

Take the girl, to start with. Tall, dark and handsome, Freak the Elder's tag-along. She shooed Andy off to the back, and I was following when she curled her hand up my sleeve, shaking her head. Her hand tugged me all the way down the aisle, down to the front pews, so I said "Look, I'm not family". But all she said was "Oh yeah". The church was modern, one of those glass-and-steel affairs, bit like home, and the light poured all around her hair so that it looked dark and radiant at the same time. How long since someone had looked at me as in  _looked_  and said "Oh yeah" ?

I meant to ask her if that was Lestrade's orders, to put me here, but she was gone and there he was, crossing the aisle. He passed her – she tall and poised, he a bit flurried in his Sunday suit – and – and – the snag, the thing. It gave. All I knew was that I had to go and speak to him before the wedding kicked in, and so I rushed out straight to where he and John Watson had gone.

Turned out it was the vestry, and the civilian (ha!) at the door wouldn't let me in, but I flapped my badge and pushed through. Inside was the priest, stocky, square shoulders, what they called "the muscular Christian" in my Gran's time. The DI and John Watson too, shuffling their feet. Greg said "Sally?", bit uncertain, and the organ struck, and the priest went to the door, saying "Well, Mr Lestrade. _Toime_  to face the music, right?"

He turned round. He pulled his arms deep into his sleeves, kimono-wise. And that's the last thing I saw before John Watson  _busted_  my field of vision, hurling himself across the room and pinning the man to the door like an oversized butterfly. I gasped, Greg froze, and the big priest just tussled himself free. His arms were no longer up his sleeves. One of them held a compact litle gun with a silencer, but John had slammed him into the door again before he could do more than hold it. It was being shaken on the other side, the door, I mean, but it was locked. What was a girl to do? Join the fray, obviously, and leap in along with Greg. 

Next thing I know, we were all lurching over one another, slamming the wardrobe door for good measure, before the man gave in, toppling down on the floor. Which was good, because Watson could slam him from a less handicapped angle. The wardrobe door had swung open, so I looked inside for something to tie him with and struck lucky at once. There was a coil of ropes there, just waiting to be uncoiled from another tall man tossed into a corner and blinking acceleratedly at me.

By the time we'd straightened out the situation and the real Father McKane, the organ was hammering Richard bloody Wagner across the door, so we opened it and let the faux civilian deal with the faux pastor. Lucky for us he'd decided not to kill McKane at once, waiting till he'd shot John and Greg to frame him or something, or Greg's wedding would have taken a pounding too. But no, on it rolled, bit wobbly here and there, though Father McKane made a brave show of it if you think he'd spent the night gagged and half choked by his own cassock, poor guy.

Huh-huh, time to change the tape.

Hullo, new tape. Ri-ight. Blame the adrenalin if everything began to rev up after that. We all poured out of the church and into the Yard's function room - which had grown green plants overnight that everyone in touch with the Drugs squad tried very hard not to hail as potted pot. Everyone not busy tucking in, that is. The food was everywhere, I mean  _everywhere_ , the kind you only see in high-budget period films with Gwynneth Paltrow. The brother presided at the buffet, stuffing the CS with aspic, and Dimmock was telling everyone about the coffee vending machine delivering chilled Irish coffee, but that was probably the wine. The wine was juicy, too.

I hugged the groom, well, the prosocial one, saying again and again "I hope you'll be very happy, sir, and I'm never ever babysitting your kids". Which made him laugh and answer that one enfant terrible quite fit the bill for him. Hugged John, too, asked him what had tipped him into action in the vestry. He said he couldn't say, no, really, but the Irish brogue and the straight military bearing together had been a bit too much, and have another drink before we frogmarch Sherlock to the dance floor, oh yes, the British Government has had a dance floor put in the Clubs and Vice department. Can you beat that?

And when I got to the right floor, there was the girl.

Still tall and dark, raising her eyes from her BlackBerry. And didn't she – oh. Didn't she look like a blackberry for all the world, the kind Gran wouldn't let me pick in the dirtpaths, time ago, dark and shiny and too high for my reach. She was looking at me and I knew I wanted to ask her if she'd done it on purpose, placing me at the church, but the wine was humming in my ears. And the music was pushing the wine on and further into my veins. She looking, and all I could say was "You have great hair".

I half-expected her to say "Yeah" again, same easy poise. But she didn't. Instead, she lifted a hand to my own hair, that was all fleecy and truant by the time, yeah, and touched it with her finger pads. And then she jutted her chin a little to where the music poured, and said "Dance?".

God, but I'm sleepy. Perhaps I'll stop the tape now and let the blinds down. Or not.

Andy would say "contaminated" or something, but you know what ? Fuck you, Anderson Anderson. And don't expect home service any time soon, from what I've heard. It's probably the wine, and it's not as if I stand a hair's chance (hah!) of seeing her again, but I don't care, I don't.

I've had my day in the sun. And it's made me glad.

* * *

**You have 1 new text message.**

Sir,

Uninvited guest's removal : settled.

Father McKane's therapy fees : ditto.

Rerouting of surveillance team to Paris : ditto.

Yard coffee machine purging : ditto.

Respectful request for Sunday off within the next 21 days : 1.

* * *

Hey John,

Greetings from Umbria! Your strategizing was spot on, man. We made it to Spoleto twenty-four ahead of the Praetorians and put the privacy to good use. Knew the pastoral siestas would bore Sher before long, but he's quite happy finding out who broke into the host's cellar, and nicked the eight bottles of Torgiano Rosso, and put the host's niece up the duff. And before you ask, I'm saying "amazing" at all the right places and keeping him in a sunhat.

Cheers, and I'll take first milk shift when we're back.

Greg

John,

No WiFi coverage. No mobile coverage. Three-course meals with non-optional pasta. THE SUN.

You might want to hide that riding-crop very carefully before I get home.

SH

 **I** ~~lacked a proper opportunity to tell you~~

~~It seems that, as always, you have managed to~~

~~If that Moran fellow had succeeded in~~

Thank you, John.

Sherlock

FINIS


End file.
